


i take you with me everywhere i go

by SchmannySchminito



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sloooooooowwwww buuuuurrnnnn, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SchmannySchminito/pseuds/SchmannySchminito
Summary: The Professor then said that sometimes magic would sense a match, a Compliment, in another. Someone who could challenge you, who could work with your magic seamlessly. Some who would fill in the gaps around you and your magic, who would understand you. Someone who could be a dear friend, a companion, or a lover. And their magic would work with yours and manifest in a physical mark on your skin, to let you know you had found them.Now, even at eleven, Hermione had been practical and preferred the magic she could see and perform herself.But she had also been lonely.Compliments were never too far from her mind back then, with hints of them scattered throughout books and rumors of marked students finding each other in the hallways. She spent nights she couldn’t sleep hypothesizing what her compliment would be like. But most of the time, the only thing she thought of was feeling at home with another person.It had been a lifeline in those early days.And one, if she is being honest, that she hasn’t quite let go of yet.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	i take you with me everywhere i go

**Author's Note:**

> *I do not support JKR's comments regarding the trans community. Harry Potter is more than the books and the movies and the theme parks. It has always been about the fandom for me and the world of acceptance that we have made for ourselves. Trans women and women.

Hermione lands on her rear somewhere near The Burrow. 

After the press of the crowd and the whirl of the portkey, the brush of grass and silence of the dawn is a blessing, even if Hermione’s trousers are uncomfortably damp because of the morning dew. She lets herself lay for a moment where the portkey had spit her out, the daze of a sleepless night and her overworked brain making her feel more than a little fuzzy around the edges. 

“C’mon you lot. Best we get home before sunrise.” Mr. Weasley instructs from where he had landed, both feet on the ground and ready to move. 

Moving. Right. She’ll do it in a moment, but for now, all she can think of is laying here, staring up at the dusky sky through burning eyes. 

“Need a little help, Gin?” One twin says, and Hermione looks over. 

The twins loom over Ginny, who is spread eagle on the ground, looking very much like a turtle with her pack keeping her back anchored to the Earth. Hermione feels she must look the same, her pack too heavy and her limbs too fuzzy to make any kind of movement. 

As they levy Ginny up, Hermione tries to decide on the best method of getting to her feet. Should she roll over or should she push herself up? It is a colossal decision to make this early in the morning. 

But two hands appear in front of her and make the choice for her. She is too fried to even begin to be suspicious at their help. But all they do is hoist her up, much easier than she would have done herself. 

She waits for a quip or jab, something about her pack being too heavy because of all the books she’s got. But the twins must be either too tired or too hungry, because all they offer is sleepy smiles and a polite point in the direction of Harry and Ron, who are still trying to wobble to their feet. They all watch as Ron, top heavy, tips over onto Harry, but no one can muster up a laugh. Once everyone is up, Mr. Weasley starts moving. 

They fall in line and begin to walk. 

The morning is beautiful, the sun just peeking over the hills as they walk, the pink of it catching in the clouds and dew on the long grass. Hermione does her best to enjoy it, trying to focus on the little things, like how the light bounces off the red of the Weasleys bobbing in front of her, or how the steam is just starting to bloom from the chimneys of the houses in Ottery St. Catchpole. She even spends some time watching the Viktor Krum figurine that Ron had purchased last night

But she has learned long ago that her brain is like a dog with a bone, and eventually it slips back to the events of last night and all they had seen after Mr. Weasley had woken them up and sent them to the woods. Of course, she has not slept, with her brain desperate to arrange it all, slot all the new information into mental boxes. To turn over what she had learned, to wrap her head around Death Eaters, no longer a word from a book, but people in the flesh. People who meant to do harm. Of You-Know-Who’s mark blooming in the sky, poisoning the night, of her automatic need to run, even if she had never seen it before. And the mistreatment of Winky, the outrage, and a sharp need for justice outweighing anything else in the moment.

She has reviewed and sorted the information. But there is one thing that she isn’t quite sure what to make of, an instance that she keeps catching on.

They had been running from the chaos when they stumbled into Malfoy, lurking in the woods. Hermione is used to the vile things he says, the names he calls her, the ugly sneers on his face. She’s even used to the threats. But there had been an implication to his words this time, an undercurrent of something more than malice with the way his face had twisted in the light of the spells being cast all around them. The scene of him telling her that the Death Eaters were after muggles, that she would be showing off her knickers in midair is sticking with her like a nasty case of dragon pox and she needs to find out why or it will drive her mad. 

“Come to think of it, Weasley you best be going too.” Malfoy had said, after his warning. “They’ll look for her mark, and well, when they see it on you…”

He had paused here, putting a finger on his chin and pretending to mull it over. “I’m not quite sure what they would do to a blood traitor of that degree, but I guess we will find out. Being a Mudblood’s Compliment…” He shuddered as if he could not think of a worse fate. 

Hermione winces away from the memory of it. It is not the venom of his words that makes her feel ill, but the suggestion behind them. 

Not the bit about Ron. That usually would have made her flush. 

But the thought of that does not ring as sweetly as it usually does, like when she lets herself daydream about finding the ink of her magic on his skin.

No, Malfoy’s words carried an implication that Hermione had not dared to think of. 

Ever since she and the rest of the first years had been herded into a classroom and told about Compliments, she had carried the idea of them close to her heart. Professor McGonagall had stood at the front of the class and told them that while they could practice their magic, they also had magic in their blood and all around them. And that one person’s magic could interact with another’s. That it happened every day. 

The room had crackled at that, and that had been Hermione’s first brush of it, of magic flowing along her skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

The Professor then said that sometimes magic would sense a match, a Compliment, in another. Someone who could challenge you, who could work with your magic seamlessly. Some who would fill in the gaps around you and your magic, who would understand you. Someone who could be a dear friend, a companion, or a lover. 

And their magic would work with yours and manifest in a physical mark on your skin, to let you know you had found them. 

Now, even at eleven, Hermione had been practical and preferred the magic she could see and perform herself. 

But she had also been lonely. 

No Harry, no Ron, no Ginny, and barely a Neville. So to be told that there was someone out there who could not only challenge her but be her friend?

it meant that compliments were never too far from her mind back then, with hints of them scattered throughout books and rumors of marked students finding each other in the hallways. She spent nights she couldn’t sleep hypothesizing what her compliment would be like. But most of the time, the only thing she thought of was feeling at home with another person. 

It had been a lifeline in those early days.

And one, if she is being honest, that she hasn’t quite let go of yet. 

But now? With Malfoy’s words swirling around her brain? 

There is a bang in the distance and Hermione jumps, but it is only the door of The Burrow bursting open and the sheer force of nature that is Mrs. Weasley, barreling towards them. She reaches Mr. Weasley first and throws her arms around him. Her mark is thrown in stark relief, curling all the way up her arm, the colors of it bright and luminescent, and they shimmer and move as Mr. Weasley embraces her back. 

Hermione has to look away, feeling ill in a new way. 

Mrs. Weasley goes for the twins next, yanking them into her so hard that they smack their heads together and complain. 

It is a nice picture, especially after last night. Mr. Weasley intervenes and pries her off the twins, guiding her toward the house. The rest of them take the cue and follow. They pass by the garden and Hermione takes a moment to look around for Crookshanks, who has spent ample time in the garden, chasing gnomes. She finds him perched on the window sill, observing the morning. He blinks at her and jumps down as they pass to follow them inside.

The Burrow is just as they left it yesterday, collections of mismatched plates and cups stacked into every available cupboard, lush plants spilling over their pots, and movement in every corner. The magic that imbues it is only comparable to Hogwarts, and even then, this is something special, something that emanates love and home.

Hermione wishes she could enjoy it. 

Instead, she beelines for the kettle because it becomes imperative to keep moving despite her exhaustion. She fills it with water before placing it over the fire. Next, she rifles through the cupboards, looking for the tin of black tea, or even an earl grey. The tea takes long enough to find that the kettle is spitting and hollering by the time she gets back to it. Filling the tea basket with leaves and dunking them is almost meditative, and she only stops once Mr. Weasley sidles up next to her with a bottle of Firewhiskey. He raises a finger to his lips and pours a healthy amount into the cup before whisking it away to his wife. 

Once the tea has been delivered and Mrs. Weasley soothed, there is nothing left to focus on except Mr. Weasley as he reads the Daily Prophet. Hermione tries to listen. Tries to wrap her head around the misinformation of Rita Skeeter, but the more she watches Mr. Weasley, the more she gets taken back to last night after he had found them in the clearing and gotten them back to the tent. When he had told all of them about what exactly the Dark Mark meant, and how everyone’s worst fear used to be coming home and finding it looming over their house. About the muggles from the Cup and how Death Eaters used to kill them for fun. About how there were ex-Death Eaters that were still at large and-

And what exactly they would think of her and her Compliment. Exactly what they would do to someone if they saw the mark of her magic, the very thing the Death Eaters believed she did not deserve, on them. 

Her skin goes hot then cold in a matter of seconds.

Mr. Weasley declares that he will need to go to work, and Hermione takes the chance to slip away under the commotion this causes, taking the stairs in twos and threes until she gets to the landing with the bathroom.

The door catches on the frame, having shifted out of its place with one too many slams, and she has to jiggle it to get it to close. 

Once it is firmly shut, she wastes no time in turning the tap on, as cold as it will go before cupping the frigid water in her hands and splashing it on her face, hoping against hope that the shock of it will reveal the irrationality of the thought she just had. But it does the opposite, bringing the ugly truth of it into stark relief. 

As she leans over the sink, letting the water drip down her cheeks and off her nose, she thinks of the horrible shapes the muggles, the Roberts’, had been contorted into. The laughter from the crowd below them. How Death Eaters had killed muggles for fun, just a few years ago. 

Malfoy’s insults had always stung, but now? It carries a weight she could not have anticipated. 

He is wrong about one thing though, she isn’t marked. 

Maybe. 

Or maybe he had seen something on her that he shouldn’t have. 

The wool of her jumper becomes nearly unbearable at that and she’s tugging it, her shirt, and her undershirt all off in one go. The tangle of clothes lands with a thump on the floor. Her trousers are next, still a little wet from the morning dew. They stick to her legs, making the process more difficult than it needs to be. She is still able to rip them off, and soon she is standing nearly starkers in the Weasley bathroom. 

There is a long mirror, tacked to the back of the door, dotted and warped from age and steam. She remembers checking it just yesterday morning for a glance at her outfit and found it wanting. 

It will have to do. 

Turning around is difficult, but she manages it. Her expanse of tawny skin is just as unmarred and unmarked as it was in the days, and weeks, and years before. But there is still no relief from the feeling that has been squeezing her brain since this morning. So she lifts a leg onto the counter, and examines every centimeter of skin, looking for something new, something out of place. 

This practice had been hard, right after saving Sirius. There were so many cuts and bruises, spots and marks that she hadn’t even noticed until days afterward. Each time she saw a new one, her heart would race. Then she would admonish herself for caring, when there was so much more to be worried about, but would still take the time to examine each mark, just in case. 

Nothing is exciting about it now, with the root of dread growing in her stomach at Malfoy’s words.

As long as people believed she didn’t deserve her magic, her Compliment would be in danger. She finishes with one leg and lifts the other to the counter. As long as she was friends with Harry, her compliment would be a target. Next are her arms and she twists them this way and that to see every angle. And with the display at the Cup? Where people who had supported Voldemort could come into the open, actively showing her and the world exactly what they thought of muggles, and the witches and wizards who came from them?

Standing is suddenly exhausting, and she allows herself to sit on the floor and hug her knees to her chest. 

And what if things got bad?

It is not a new thought. She has had it with the stone and the chamber. Even with Sirius. She has always carefully recorded and cataloged every threat that came their way. But this? This was different. This was You-Know-Who’s mark in the sky. This was seeing Death Eater masks in person and knowing why they were doing what they were doing and-

There is a knock on the door and Hermione is up like a shot.

“Give me a moment!” She yells out, frantically trying to untangle her lump of clothes. 

“Granger c’mon! I’ve been holding it for ages!”

It is a twin and Hermione curses herself for doing this in the bathroom of all places, in a home with more than eleven residents roaming the halls. 

He knocks again. She tugs the jumper-shirt-tank top mess over her head and grabs her trousers. The dampness has them sticking to her thighs and she bumps into the linen cabinet in her struggle to pull them on. 

The door, of course, sticks, and she fights with it. By the time she manages to throw it open, she’s more than a little out of breath and sure she is flushed in the face.

The twin whistles as he sees her face.

“And what was going on in there?” 

There is a cock to his brow that has never boded well and Hermione finds that she likes it even less when it is directed at her. 

“Using the toilet, washing my hands-”

“Running into furniture, making a ruckus?”

“Isn’t that your job?”

She waits for him to move past her and into the bathroom but he just keeps looking at her, a stupid smirk growing on his face. Mrs. Weasley must have put breakfast on, because this twin is well-fueled and is at the ready, the apparent peace of earlier this morning already forgotten. 

“What are you waiting for?” She says, “An invitation?”

“Point.” He agrees and pushes past her. 

She sighs and sags back against the wall once he shoves the door shut, closing it with an ease that speaks of years of practice getting it just right. She wonders at the finesse, but it only lasts for a moment before the dread creeps back in. 

There is no other word for what happened at the cup other than escalation. Sure Harry had faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before, but it had always been just him, never any hint of a serious collection of followers that were actually by his side. 

It had been naive of her to assume that there weren’t more than Peter Pettigrew out there, who might be cowards, but still held the same beliefs they had during the war. Of course, she has devoured books on the subject, but The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts had been a clinical recitation of events and failed to capture just how it felt to be confronted with a Dark Mark in person. 

None of the books had mentioned anything to do with Compliments that she can remember but-

She massages her temples and yearns for the Hogwarts library.

“Weird to wait outside the bathroom and listen to a guy take a leak, Granger!” The twin calls, muffled from the bathroom. 

Hermione rolls her eyes and stalks away from the landing. The Burrow is an amazing place, chock full with magic and busy in a way her home has never been, and yet Hermione finds herself yearning for the quiet privacy of her parents’ home where she can take a second to think. 

Ginny probably won’t be up to their room for a while with her mum putting breakfast on. So Hermione heads up, ready for solace. 

Only to find Harry and Ron sprawled on the steps just past her door, looking anxious and like it’s time for a meeting. It is never a good thing when Harry has that crease between his brows. She resigns herself to another sleepless night of thinking and follows them up the stairs.


End file.
